


Paternal Instinct.

by One_Real_Imonkey



Category: Hamilton - Miranda, Turn (TV 2014)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Anger, Angst, Apologies, Assassination Attempt(s), Battle of Brandywine, Betrayal, Canon Era, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death In Dream, Concussions, Dissociation, Emotional Manipulation, Family Feels, Fluff, Gen, George Washington is a Dad, Gunshot Wounds, Historical Inaccuracy, Hypothermia, Knives, Manipulation, Medical Inaccuracies, Nightmares, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Poison, Threats of Violence, Worried Parent George Washington, collapse, comforting alexander, comforting ben, comforting lafayette, exasperated Washington, google translate, schuylkill river, threat of murder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-10
Updated: 2020-11-20
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:42:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27482914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/One_Real_Imonkey/pseuds/One_Real_Imonkey
Summary: George Washington had no biological children, illegitimate or otherwise, but there was no force on heaven or Earth that could stand between him and his sons.Or...Five times Washington looked after his sons and 1 they all looked after each other (but specifically him).
Relationships: Alexander Hamilton & Benjamin Tallmadge, Alexander Hamilton & George Washington, Alexander Hamilton & Gilbert du Motier Marquis de Lafayette, Alexander Hamilton & Gilbert du Motier Marquis de Lafayette & Benjamin Tallmadge, Benjamin Tallmadge & George Washington, Gilbert du Motier Marquis de Lafayette & Benjamin Tallmadge, Gilbert du Motier Marquis de Lafayette & George Washington
Comments: 43
Kudos: 137





	1. Nightmare

**Author's Note:**

> I don't own.  
> I hope you enjoy.  
> Staring:  
> Dad!Gwash.  
> Eldest brother!Ben.  
> Middle brother!Laf.  
> Baby Brother!Alex.

The letters in George Washington’s hands dropped to the mud, instantly forgotten as he took in the scene in front of him.

His tent was a bloodbath.

His sons...

He reached Lafayette first, practically slipping in the blood-soaked mud in his haste to drop to his side. He gingerly moved the sword out of the way, it was bloody, and there were other bodies he didn’t care about, bodies that weren’t his sons. 

Lafayette had died fighting. 

His boy’s eyes were glazed and unseeing, all their shine and light lost in the brutality of the attack. Blood had bloomed from his chest, but the stain was so large and clothes so torn that George could not determine where the wound had been.

There was a wet but raspy gasp, and George abandoned Lafayette for his eldest, for Ben, who was still alive, pinned under the body of one of his attackers. George  hauled it off of him, only to recoil and utter,

“Ben, oh Lord, Ben, no.”

Still alive, but Benjamin was not long for this world. There was too much blood, it was spilling from his lips, from his chest. He was still awake, and as he cradled him, George could see frantic fear in his eyes. His lips moved, but there was no sound, whatever Ben was trying to tell him, he didn’t have the strength to pass the words along.

Billy Lee had run for the doctor, but the man would be too late.

Ben gave another bloody splutter, and more blood flowed from his lips. He was heaving as he drowned on his own blood, oh God.

“It’s ok, Ben. Rest. I've got you, son.”

He felt the life leave his boy from within his arms.

He was sobbing now, as he looked frantically for Alexander.

His youngest was supposed to have been in the tent with them. Had he escaped, had Ben and Laf bought him time to get safely? But he couldn’t imagine Alexander would leave them.

Had he been late, too caught up on paperwork to realise the time, spared by his own timekeeping skills? No, Alexander was almost never late for these dinners.

Had he been taken?

He lowered Ben as gently as he could, and stood. Alexander had to be here.

He rounded past the divider, and froze again.

There was a  man, dressed in the same garb as the dead behind him.

He had Alexander, struggling weakly in his arms, blood running down the side of his face. The bastard holding him was injured, trapped, outnumbered. 

But he had George’s son.

Alex looked up at him as he was noticed, eyes going wide with fear and grief and  Georges heart broke.

He drew his pistol at the same time as the man holding his son, but the man did not point it at him.

He pointed it at Alexander’s head.

And grinned.

George shot up from his bed as the gunshot from his dream rang out, blood spray flying in his  mind's eye, even as the dream faded, gasping and clawing at the sheets he’d tangled himself in and falling in his haste to escape the bed.

His knees met wood.

Wood, the house. He wasn’t quartered in a tent, he and his boys were staying in the home of a gentleman with rooms to spare, and land for their camp around it. They weren’t in a tent; his boys’ blood didn’t stain the earth.

But he had to see.

Had to know.

Lafayette's room was the closest, being directly opposite his. Ignoring the impropriety of leaving his room in little more than his smallclothes, he stepped across the corridor and pushed the door open, allowing himself time to watch the rise and fall of Lafayette’s chest. The peaceful smile as he shifted in his sleep. There was no blood, no torn clothes, no danger at all.

His middle child was safe and alive.

Reassured of his continued  existence , he moved to the room next to Lafayette's.

Ben’s.

The sight of his eldest choking up blood would not leave his mind as he pushed the door open.

Ben was sleeping as peacefully as Lafayette had been, no blood or wheeze to be seen. Still, Ben slept in a far more motionless manner than either of George’s other sons, and was face down. He couldn’t help but give in to the need to check properly, walking the short distance from the door to the bed as quietly as possible and with proximity, he could see Ben breathing easily and unhindered.

From Ben’s room, he looked for Alexander. Alexander’s room was next to his, across from Ben’s. 

The door was already open a crack, but the bed was empty, the sheets rumpled.

Panic lanced through him, before he schooled himself, and crept down the stairs. There was one more place to check before he panicked.

Sure enough, Alexander was asleep at his desk, bathed in the dimming candlelight as it burned down beside him. There was no assailant with a gun, and Alexander’s head was whole and bloodless, unlike the haunting images from his dream.

The blanket that lived on the back of his chair when he wasn’t using it had slipped onto the floor, and George wrapped it around his youngest’s shoulders, brushing the hair off his face and putting the lid onto his ink-well.

His sons were alive. They were safe.


	2. Brandywine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly, timelines here are inaccurate so the chapters may jump a little or not fit into actual history, but neither does the story so....  
> I don't own.  
> Hope you enjoy.

The battle was brutal, and George knew it had been his fault.

His tactical blunder had cost them the Brandywine and the lives of too many men.

They would keep fighting, the men were more than willing to do so, but he’d been foolish enough to leave his flank exposed and if Sullivan hadn’t been there, they would have been crushed.

Would his men trust him to lead when he made mistakes like these?

Following the battle, they’d had to take stock of what they had.

Alexander had been safely away from the battle, running a missive to congress, Benjamin had been with Brewster and doing something for the Ring, he couldn’t remember what off the top of his head.

But Lafayette... he’d been on the battlefield, he’d been fighting.

And George didn’t know where he was, didn’t know if he was alive or if he was captured.

He just didn’t know.

And then George saw him, riding in, looking blessedly alive and well.

He let his shoulders slump in relief and strode forwards to meet him. 

Lafayette had haunted eyes, the way all soldiers did after a battle, but they shone when they saw him. The same relief he’d had in seeing his son alive, reflected in his son seeing he was alive.

His wig was missing, lost either in the battle or the return and his coat was torn a little, but he looked fine. 

“Are you well?”

“I am unharmed, sir, you?”

“I’m fine. Let's get your horse stabled and then we’ll start assessing our next moves.”

“Of course, Si...”

Georges heart stuttered as his son dropped. It was only by luck that he caught him before he fell to the floor. 

His britches were red.

He'd been injured.

“I’ve... I've been shot,  mon dieu. ”

“You’re ok, son, come on, lets get you to the doctor.”

He did his best to support the boy’s weight as they made their way to the doctor’s tent.

“It hurts.”

“I know, I can imagine. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I did not realise. I had no idea. It did not hurt. Papa, it hurts now.”

“We’re almost there.”

By the time they reached the doctor Lafayette was barely awake and had tears in his eyes. 

Oh his poor son.

The boy all but collapsed into the bed, pale from the blood loss. He hadn’t noticed he had been injured, and George hadn’t seen because it had been on the other side of the horse to him. Rationally, he knew that the few seconds before dismounting means nothing, but in his mind, he wanted there to be something he could have done.

His boy was hurt and it was his fault, his planning had led to their flank being open. This was on him.

The doctor came running. 

There was so much blood.

George supported his boy as the doctor started cutting away the material to find the wound, and Lafayette’s weight increased as he lost the strength to hold himself up head resting on George’s shoulder, eyes fluttering.

For all that he was glad the boy had been away from the battle, he wished he had Alexander here now, because in his exhaustion and pain, Lafayette had slipped back into French.

By the time the doctor got the ball out, the boy was completely unconscious.

It was, perhaps, a mercy. He knew how painful such an injury could be.

It was incredible that he had gone so long with a shot in his calf and not noticed, but he was young and this was war. War could do that to people, it was something people didn’t often know, but the effect on the mind could be far more than the effect on the body. It was awful how many men they lost to their own minds; casualties of battles rarely counted in the final tallies.

Oh Lord, spare my son.

The doctor sealed the wound, wrapping it with clean bandages.

“He has not lost too much blood, sir. Not so much that I'm worried, anyway. I worry a little for infection, but again I cannot see anything grave yet. He will likely recover well.”

“Thank you.”

He knew the doctor knew his affections for Lafayette, like Alexander and Benjamin, were paternal in nature. He had his own children, and had commented once or twice when George had been by one of his boys’ bedsides. 

He didn’t know exactly what the doctor believed their situation to be, but it was good not to be judged on top of the stress of one of his sons being injured.

.

.

.

Benjamin returned first, riding right up to his tent with Brewster in tow. 

He had much to report, but his first question had been about George and Lafayette.

He was so tired of telling any of his boys than another had been wounded, and Alexander hadn’t even returned yet. He was sick of seeing the way their faces dropped and whole bodies seemed to slump with the new burden. And as long as there were other people in the room there was no comfort he could provide.

He'd embraced his eldest as soon as Brewster was gone. 

“He’ll be ok, Benjamin, the doctor is confident he will recover.”

“How bad is it?”

“He was shot in the leg, calf. The doctor has said there’s no infection and it was a clean wound. He should be up and running in a month or two.”

“He got shot."

“But he’s alive, Benhamin, he will recover.”

Good news did not make up for their losses, but it did give them a next step to work towards. They had to co-ordinate scouts and where they were going to move, where they were going to hit next. 

It was a conversation he wanted both boys present for.

Lafayette waved from his bed, the first grin George had seen since he’d returned from the battle, wide on his face.

“Benjamin,  mon frère , welcome back, I am glad you are unharmed.”

“I wish I could say the same. How long has the doctor said before you’re back on your feet?”

“Eh, at least a month. I hope I can be of help elsewhere until I am recovered.”

“Once the doctor lets you out of that bed, son, I want you in my office. You can help with strategies.”

“Merci.” 

“For now, Ben, your report...”

.

.

.

George was willing to admit Lafayette was the sensible one.

Of all three of his boys, he was the most sensible.

He was the one who would listen to the doctors, unlike Alexander who’d collapse trying to get to his desk or Ben who’d be up and running around with a hole in his shoulder.

But, after a week, Lafayette had apparently reached his limit.

Something he’d not realised until he’d seen the boy on his crutches crossing the camp through a window.

He wasn’t sure he wanted to know how the boy had made it down the stairs and out the building so quietly without George realising. Heaven forbid an assassin came for them; he’d never hear it, apparently. 

He'd been furious. 

His middle child was supposed to be the one he could use as an example for the other two!

So, he could point and say “look at him, he does what the doctor tells him to.” and shame the other two into trying to take care of themselves for once. 

It was almost a good thing Alexander hadn’t returned yet. Benjamin was older, and would likely fuss, but Alexader was bad enough when it came to his own health without having another bad influence.

He dropped his head onto his desk with a dull  thunk .

_ Dear Martha, _

_ My beloved wife, I write to you for two reasons. _

_ For one, I wish to hear from you because I miss you so. It has been so long since I've seen you, since I held you close. My love if this wasn’t a war, I'd want you here but I could not risk you so.  _

_ For the second, I write because I need advice. I have written to you before about my boys, and here I am in desperate need of advice in how I am to help them. They are so young, and war is so brutal. _

_ God, Lafayette was shot in battle a week past, and now he insists on ignoring the doctor's orders and walking around. What do I do, Martha? How do I convince them to look after themselves? They are in so much danger and they do not help themselves one bit, they just put themselves at further risk. He's barely 20, Alexander isn’t even that.  _

_ I want them to have the world, I want them to have an America they can thrive in.  _

_ But I fear they won’t survive to see it if they keep taking these risks and acting like they can survive anything. Seeing Lafayette shot brought these fears to my dreams, I cannot unsee their deaths. And then when they get injured, they get up and walk around and strain themselves to prove they can manage, to prove... I do not even know what it is they want to prove. I will not see them as weaker or lesser if they take time to recover.  _

_ But they aren’t going to make it to the end of the war if they keep acting like this. _

_ Martha, how can I raise three boys alone? _

_ Your devoted husband, _

_ George. _

.

.

.

Alexander’s return a week later was worse, because he’d been told Lafayette had been shot. 

The news of the battle, and the Marquis’ condition, had reached them by rider the day before he’d left, but the story that had reached him had been exaggerated. Rumours saying Lafayette had been on the brink of death.

Alexander had been barely holding himself together when he’d arrived, but once he’d seen his brother, on crutches but alive and awake and out of bed, well, he’d cried in relief.

He'd overthought himself into believing Lafayette was dead. That he was coming home to a funeral.

George couldn’t imagine how stressed he must have been, riding back to camp alone, fearing he’d lose his brother, or that he’d already lost him. 

Lafayette, ever the affectionate, had hauled him into hug, dragging Ben in with a free hand, dropping his crutches and overbalancing into Alexander who barely caught his weight with a wet laugh. George had leant back on his desk for a second, wishing there was some way to preserve the moment, before he joined them.

He had his sons back home and safe and recovering.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoyed.  
> Please R+R.


	3. Schuylkill.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Update.  
> I don't own.  
> Hope you enjoy.

He'd regretted letting Alexander lead the mission even before they’d ridden off, but he could hardly stop them. Not without outwardly showing favouritism.

Besides, someone needed to keep an eye on Lee, and he trusted Alex to do that. This was a safer mission than most, he would be fine.

Alexander will be fine, he’d told himself.

He'll be fine, he’d told Ben and Lafayette, as they’d worried for their brother, two hours after the group was supposed to return.

They were just destroying a flour mill, that was it. It was no battle, just a simple fire.

So why were they so late?

The sun set, and both Ben and Lafayette showed up in his office. He understood why they couldn’t go back to their rooms; it was the same reason he hadn’t retired for the night. He couldn’t wait alone.

They stayed as late as they could, but by one in the morning they were falling asleep where they stood, so he sent them to their beds.

They returned down to him the next morning, and eventually set about their tasks for the day, but he knew their eyes kept tracking to the door just as his did. Her  persuaded them to spend the evening with their friends, Brewster and Laurens and the other men they’d grown close to. Other people who were waiting on Alexander’s return.

Lee rode back in the late evening, after the sun had set, with two thirds of his men in tow.

Alexander wasn’t with him.

His son wasn’t with them.

“What happened? Where’s Hamilton?”

Where was his son?

“The mission was a success sir, but we, I'm sorry, Sir. We were crossing back when the British opened fire. He was struck in the chest, went into the river. He didn’t come back up again. I'm so sorry.”

Lee excused himself, and George dropped against the desk, breaths short and sharp.

Oh god. Oh god his son was dead.

Behind him he heard the door burst open, “I saw Lee’s men, I... sir? Alex?”

Oh god, Lafayette. How was he supposed to tell him Alex was  dead?

“Non,” Lafayette was shaking his head, “Non, non, he said,  Je serai de retour le matin, frère, ne  t'inquiète pas pour  moi . He said he’d be back, non. ”

He opened his arms and  Lafayette ran into them.

“Mon petit frère.”

Ben rushed in a few minutes later, looking harried, took in their posture, and whatever  resolve he’d had  broken . Tears flooded to his eyes.

“God please no. It's true, isn’t it? Tell me it’s not.”

He stumbled into the  embrace .

George held his sons close, all too aware of empty space within his hold where a third should be.

“Let me find him, take some men, please.”

“No, Ben.”

“He could still be out there.”

“It will be crawling with Redcoats, it’s too dangerous.”

“But...”

“No, no, I will not let you. I won’t lose you too.”

Struck in the chest, that wasn’t  commonly survived before a fall into a freezing river.

Alexander was gone. He wasn’t losing any more sons tonight.

He couldn’t.

He held them long into the night, sinking to the floor of the room, not caring what someone would say should they find them. War took and took and took, but why Alexander?

Eventually, he forced himself to move, to go to his bed and to send his sons to theirs. The floor would do them no good.

If they both crept from their own rooms into Alexanders and spent the night there, he could not fault them. He'd considered doing the same, sobbing himself to sleep on the floor of his son’s room, clutching one of his coats like a lifeline, but he didn’t.

They needed it more.

.

.

.

When he woke the next  morning, they had both left, he most likely to mourn with their friends.

He sank into the chair at his desk and tried not to think of how the letters on it had been organised by Alexander, some penned by him.

That they might be some of the few things of Alexander he had left, and he was going to have to send them away.

And then a messenger burst in.

“Sir, it’s Hamilton, he’s alive.”

It took him a second to recognise and understand what had been said, and the words felt like knives when they did, but the conviction of the man as he spoke, what if he spoke true?

“Show me.”

He would not send for Ben or Lafayette, not until he knew the truth. He would not pain them with this hope should it be false.

He was led to the  doctor's tent, and there indeed was his son, unconscious, soaked to the bone and cold as ice, with the pallid complexion of the dead, face marred with deep lines of exhaustion, mud and blood and debris from the river and forest covering his clothes and face and hair, but he was breathing. He was alive.

It was his son.

“Someone get Major Tallmadge and Major General Lafayette. Now.”

“General, he has acute hypothermia, a concussion, a gash from a bullet on his side and his whole body is... well, exhausted. The guards say he made it to the boundry of the camp before collapsing, he must have walked the whole way here. If you could help get the clothes off him, we need to warm him up.”

The doctor ran off to ask for what he needed to help Alexander, and they were alone.

Oh son...

If not for his breathing, he would have thought he were looking at a corpse. He had seen bodies washed up on  riverbanks before, the only difference here was the subtle rise and fall of Alexander’s chest.

Oh my little one, please don’t leave us.

He cupped his son’s face, and he prayed, and then he got to work, removing the sodden layers of fabric that kept his son so cold he couldn’t shiver, until he was in nothing but his small clothes.

He was forced out of the tent when the doctors moved Alexander into the lukewarm bathwater. Ben and Lafayette both arrived as the tent flap closed behind him.

“He’s alive. He's sick, but he’s alive.”

“How? Lee said...?”

“As far as we can tell, he walked back.”

The pure relief on their faces, something he was sure was mirrored on his own face, was a truly beautiful sight. But there was anger in Ben’s and it was justified, and guilt welled up.

“I should have gone for him.”

“Ben.”

“No, he was alive, he is alive, I could have brought him home sooner.”

“Or you could have both been killed. A group on horseback draws more attention than a lone man on foot that they aren’t looking for because they already think he’s dead.”

“Will he live?”

While Ben’s face had fallen to anger, Laf’s face had fallen to fear, and he knew mentioning death hadn’t helped. For all his bravery in battle, he was still so young. They all were.

“They’re hopeful. They need to warm him up, and they’re worried his wounds will have become infected by the river water, but he was not to gravely injured that he can’t survive. He had the strength to get back to us, we need to trust he won’t give up fighting now.”

.

.

.

Eventually, the doctor summoned him from his desk.

“We have warmed him up, cleaned his wounds and dressed them, and he has woken twice. He was disoriented, and still needs to warm further, but he knew where he was and who he was.”

George breathed a sigh of relief.

“His room in the house will likely be warmer than the medical tent, I think it would be best, sir, if we moved him there. I could assign an apprentice to keep watch over him, but I do not think it is necessary unless his fever  worsens .”

“Fever?”

“He has caught both sickness and infection in the river. The fever is mild and we have done what we can, but it is up to him to fight. Keep him warm and dry and fed, and he should be fine.”

Once settled in his bed, George was stunned at how much better his son looked already.

His skin had regained its usual complexion, in fact it was flushed, and the blood was no longer dried down his face, a bandage wrapped around the wound. He shivered, and there was fever-sweat, but he looked healthier than he had by miles.

He was bundled in blankets, hearth roaring, but still he shivered and still his lips had not quite lost the blue hue they’d taken from his time in the river and the forest.

The wound was grim, livid red from infection. The infection had taken hold, and trapped Alexander in the throes of sickness. He was reminded of a story from Alex’s childhood, of Alexander and his mother in their sickbed, of the sickness Alex fought through, the one that took his mother.

The sickness could take him still, if he could not fight it.

He had to fight it.

Lafayette kept muttering so, clasping his younger brother’s hand tight, uttering prayers.

Ben was praying at the  chapel on the other side of camp, but he was sure his eldest would be back soon. 

Alex writhed in his sleep, groaning and muttering. His eyes fluttered but didn’t open properly.

“Manman? Mwen te resevwa friod. Manman, ede mwen.”

Oh Alex.  Oh little one.

Lafayette instantly started muttering back in French, and  George cursed not knowing the language.

“ Alex, tu es en sécurité tu es avec nous. ”

“Alexander, you’re safe, you’re home.”

“Papa? Papa, mwen regrèt mwen pa ka jwenn kan an, mwen pa ka jwenn zetwal yo. Mwen pa ka jwenn kay la. Frè yo padonnen m.” 

“Tout va bien, Alex, tu es rentré chez toi, tu nous est revenu, tu es en sécurité maintenant.” 

George ran his hand through Alex’s hair and added his own platitudes until the boy calmed into a deeper sleep. Several time through the days and nights he would have these waking moments, and every time they’d have to calm him. It seemed as though sometimes Alexander was responding, but it was more to their voices than their words.

The three of them took turns watching him until the fever broke.

They stayed with him until his strength returned to him and his character with it.

And then George ordered the boy behind a desk he’d never l eave again  til the war ended, if he had his way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> West Indies French Creole translation:  
> “Manman? Mwen te resevwa friod. Manman, ede mwen.” (mama I'm so cold. Mama, help me.)   
> “Papa? Papa, mwen regrèt mwen pa ka jwenn kan an, mwen pa ka jwenn zetwal yo. Mwen pa ka jwenn kay la. Frè yo padonnen m.” (Papa? Papa, I'm sorry I can't find the camp, I can't find the stars. I can't find our home. My brothers forgive me.)   
> France French Translation:  
> Je serai de retour le matin, frère, ne t'inquiète pas pour moi.(I'll be back in the morning, brother, don't worry about me.)  
> “Alex, tu es en sécurité tu es avec nous.” (Alex, you are safe with us.)  
> “Tout va bien, Alex, tu es rentré chez toi, tu nous est revenu, tu es en sécurité maintenant.” (It's ok Alex, you got home, you came back to us, you're safe now.)  
> .  
> .  
> .  
> Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoyed.  
> Please R+R.


	4. Gamble.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is longer than I realised. Haha.  
> I don't own.  
> Hope you enjoy.

Every revelation of treachery in their ranks cut deep, but to be betrayed by a reverend, by a man they so trusted to keep their secrets between him and God. A man who had been using their secrets and confessions against them to turn them. He felt awful for sending Benjamin after a man of God, when his own father had been one, but Benjamin was his head of  intelligence , and had practically insisted if nothing else that he would be the one to go.

It was his responsibility he’d claimed.

But Ben was late, and George regretted letting him go for after their rogue reverend.

The British didn’t send André into the field to kill, no, André had his man Gamble to do his work. They didn’t risk their intelligence head with missions in the neutral  territory . 

If everything had gone to  plan, he would have returned  already .

He couldn’t focus on his work, his letters, his planning. They had to react to the situation of having had a spy in their camp, and he had realised on day one that as competent as Alexander was at his work, this needed Benjamin’s touch. It was his area, his skillset.

He wished Benjamin had sent someone else.

He found himself wishing different outcomes all too frequently in this war. Instead of working, he paced up and down in his office, ignoring Alexanders growing annoyance at the distraction. He never understood how Alexander turned his worry or fear or grief into productivity, it baffled him. His emotions distracted him, made it  impossible to focus on the words on a page.

“Sir! Please! I cannot focus.”

“Apologies.”

“Ben will be fine; he’s probably taking a longer route. He'll come back.”

Alexander was lying. 

Alexander was worried too, George could see it in his eyes, his posture, the way his hand was shaking slightly. They boy was terrified, but he refused to let himself think on it. George's worrying was making him think about it, no matter how much he was trying to distract himself.

“Son.”

“He works in spy craft. He's been gone longer than expected before. I have to think like that, sir, I have to.”

“I know. I know, son.”

“You’re worried about what you have to tell Laf when he gets back? That you have to tell him Ben isn’t back yet.”

“Am I wrong to?”

“No, sir, but it is  distracting .”

.

.

.

“Move to shore. Slow and steady. That's far enough. Turn around, Now kneel down.”

Oh God, Ben thought, he’s going to execute me. He's going to kill me here and hide my body with  Wakefield's .

“I am an officer in the Continental Army. Protocol dictates...”

Ben woke to a pain in his ribs, his wrists, the back of his head. There was something moving beneath him, a horse. He was slung over the back of a horse.

Better than being dead.

He hoped.

“Ah, he wakes. Hungry?”

That bastard. 

“Where are we?”

He wriggled his wrists in an attempt to twist them free.

“You're on your way to meet Major André. That's the least you could do for me seeing that you fouled my mission.” 

“I won't talk. You might as well kill me now.” 

“Oh, I'd love to. Give you a second smile like I did for your old man Sackett.”

Gamble twisted his hand into Ben’s hair pulling his head up and tracing the knife over his neck. His grin was psychotic.

“I’d love to cut it slowly, carefully, watch you choke and bleed. Cut up all down your arms and legs, your ears, your lips. Make it take _hours_.”

The last sentence was whispered into his hear, the knife pressed deeper, and there was a slight warmth. For almost a minute he stayed as still as he could with the horse below him shuffling slightly, before it was removed and the blade was in front of his face. He could see the blood collected on it. The knife pressed to his lips, not enough to split the skin or draw blood, but enough to leave the stain and taste.

Steel and blood.

“But I got chastised, you see. Won't make the same mistake twice. Though after the major gets done with you, I expect he'll have me see you vanished. After all, you're not in uniform, so the rules are off the table.”

Ben stopped wriggling his wrists.

“My hope is he’ll give you to me to play with. Oh, there’ll be no message to daddy Washington telling him we have you, no message to our Generals either. André’s going to keep you in a small dark room until we get all the information we need, the world will move on, the war will move on, you’ll stay right there. Until everyone forgets about you. Then I'll get my games, I'll cut your ears, little cuts, and your fingers, your feet, legs, arms, torso. Bleed you pale, let you heal, and do it all again, every week, until you’re begging me for death, and I won’t give it to you. Never.”

“You’re sick. You're a sick bastard!”

“The sick bastard who’s going to own you the rest of your life. I hope you said goodbye to your daddy and brothers, you’ll never see them again. Although, I’ll definitely make you watch when we hang them. I’ll drag you out of the tiny room I'll have kept you in for the first time in years, just to see the look on their faces when they realise. Maybe while they’re in cells, maybe just before they hang, rope around their necks. How would daddy Washington react if the last thing he saw before he died was you, alive after all that time, emaciated and beaten and broken? Oh, his face would be stunning.”

He knew he had to get the images of what Gamble said out of his mind, that he needed to focus on his escape, but he all could imagine was his General’s face in that situation, the pain and horror and realisation and helplessness all at once. The realisation that his child had been, not dead, but instead a prisoner the whole time, tortured for months or years, and that it was too late to do anything. That there was no way he could save Ben, but that Ben was going to watch him die before going right back to being tortured.

Gamble seemed to be practically getting off from the same image.

He couldn’t let it happen.

Underneath him the horse skittered slightly again.

Horse.

He was tied to a horse.

A horse that didn’t seem to be tied to anything.

Gamble released his hair and stepped away. Ben took his chance, slapping the horses rear.

There was a gunshot.

Everything went black.

.

.

.

Ben stumbled into camp a few days later. The doctor had accosted him before George could get there, but had sent him for him  immediately .

When he arrived, the first thing he noted was that Ben looked half dead, and there was something in his eyes that hadn’t been there when he’d left.

His clothes were different from the one he’d left in, and the doctor was checking an already treated and cleaned gunshot wound in his side.

Surely the minister hadn’t been armed?

“Sir?”

“Are you well?”

“I...”

“He has a concussion and the shot to his side, and some bruising to his ribs.”

“Wakefield has been  dealt with sir, but I had a run in with his contact. Gamble.”

Gamble. The man who’d killed Nathaniel Sackett. André's dog. 

“Gamble? Is he dead?”

“No sir, I’m sorry, it’s only by grace of god I escaped with my life. He's the one who shot me.”

“Do not be, you completed your mission and you returned here, safe.”

“Your wounds have been tended to, but not professionally, the stitches will hold if you take it easy, but if you plan to do anything more strenuous, they will fail.”

“There was a Tory widow, apparently I made it to her doorstep before I collapsed, I don’t recall it. She saved my life, thought I was a traveling minster who’d been attacked, sent me packing when she found out I wasn’t. She should have reported me, Gamble was searching the town.”

“Even in war there is kindness.”

“Kindness... perhaps. Alexander, Lafayette, they’re both well?”

“Lafayette isn’t back yet, but Alexander’s fine, worried, but you are a few days late. You need rest, Benjamin. The doctor has said you can return to your room. Write your report, then get some sleep.”

Alexander appeared at the door like he’d been summoned when his name had been mentioned, clearly looking to see his brother.

His relief was palpable.

He'd planned on helping Ben back to the house they were quartered in, but there was something in the doctor's posture that said there was something he wanted to say.

“Alex, could you help Benjamin back to his room. And keep him away from his work, he’s been put onto rest, I'd like him to follow it those orders. Once he’s written his report, he has to sleep.”

“Yes sir.”

Once the door shut, he turned to the doctor with a worried sigh.

“What is it?”

“What I did not tell you earlier, sir. The bruising on his ribs and chest, it's that of someone who was carried over the back or a horse. And he had rope burn on his wrists.”

“He was a captive.”

“Yes, I would guess by his state for at least a day, but perhaps unconscious for much of it, judging by the lack of struggle marks within the rope burns. He does not show signs of torture, not physical torture anyway. Except for the small cut on his throat, which doesn't look like it was a real attempt to slit it, but it drew blood.”

“Gamble murdered Benjamin’s mentor, he’d be more than able to get into his head. Especially if he had him for that space of time. The bastard slit Sackett’s throat.”

George brushed his fingers over his own neck thinking of the small cut on Ben’s. Torture of the mind, not the body. How many of those days had Ben been in that man’s grasp.

“Beyond any issues of the mind, sir, I think for now we need to focus on physical injuries. The hit on his head could be dangerous, and he mentioned memory gaps. If there are any other issues, we can treat them when they arise. I have no doubt you three will be keeping a close eye on him, sir.”

.

.

.

“Sir, come quick.”

“Alexander, what is it?”

“I... I don’t...” he’d never seen his youngest quite like this, “It’s Ben. Somethings wrong, he... he just shut down... he won’t... he won't respond.”

“Take me. Now.”

Alexander bolted from the room and he followed with the same speed. It was fortunate Benjamin was in the house rather than a tent, because his hurrying was not  something he’d want the soldiers to see, but also would not have been able to stop.

Alexander stopped at the door, letting him pass.

Ben was sitting on his bunk, stiff, staring  forwards.

He didn’t make a move when George entered, didn’t react at all, just stared onwards.

In fact, George noticed, the only part of him moving at all were his shaking hands and his lips, but he was too quiet for George to hear what he was saying. 

“Benjamin?”

He sat himself down next to the boy gingerly, not wanting to startle him. He'd seemed fine when he’d returned, quiet, certainly, injured, but aware and moving and focused.

He looked to the door, where Alexander was paused, one hand gripping the frame, hesitating, uncertain, and mouthed for the boy to get the doctor.

The boy nodded and slipped away.

“Ben, son?”

“I’m sorry.”

It was the first audible thing Ben had said since he entered and yet he'd never heard the boy’s voice so small. Either he didn’t speak, or he spoke his mind, he never mumbled this quietly.

“Benjamin, why?”

“Nearly failed. They... they almost... André would... have...”

“You escaped, you’re safe,  you're back here.”

“I just... I didn't realise, I never thought... I...”

“Benjamin, you’re safe. The  British don’t have you.”

“I’m not just a soldier anymore. I... I'm not...”

Ben's breathing was wrong, too fast, his shoulders shaking. He still didn’t look anywhere but the wall, and George wondered whether Ben was responding to his questions or just muttering  whatever was going through his head.

He wondered where the Hell the damned doctor was.

George moved from the bed to the floor, kneeling in front of Benjamin, stilled the boy’s shaking hands with his own.

“Benjamin, you must breathe, please, son, just focus on breathing. Please, breathe with me.”

Alexander led the doctor in, Lafayette a few steps behind him, and the man dropped his bag, taking Georges place, checking Ben’s eyes and breathing and pulse. He stepped back to his other sons and waited for the man’s assessment.

“This is not uncommon, soldiers often get trapped into their minds after difficult experiences, especially with a head wound, General, but if we cannot bring him out of it and calm him on our own, I would ask permission to administer some laudanum to calm him instead.”

“What would you recommend, doctor?”

“Major?” the doctor bent so they were face to face the way  George had been, “Can you hear me?”

“They have no mercy.”

“Benjamin?”

“I would be no prisoner; I would not hang.”

“I think the laudanum would be the safest course, sir. Once he has slept, he should be in a better mind.”

“I would want to hang, I think.”

Georges heart stuttered. Benjamin had not yet given his full report, what had the Redcoats done that would make him think this way? Would put him into this state?

“Do it.”

“I don’t want to  disappear .”

“You won’t Benjamin,” he muttered to the boy, holding him steady as the doctor prepared the medicine, “we won’t let you.”

“Dark room. No way out.”

“Ben, you’re safe. We have you safe.”

The stiffness and stifled breathing faded as the drugs flowed through his system. For a second Ben’s eyes were clear and focused, looking directly at him, filled with ghosts and horrors.

“They would see me vanished.”

And then the drugs took full effect, and the boy fell into unconsciousness in his arms.

.

.

.

“Papa, what happened? He... I've never seen anyone like that before.”

Lafayette had returned from his mission just in time to follow Alexander running for the doctor. It must have been  horrific to come home to.

“The doctor thinks he was taken captive at one point during his mission, and that combined with the concussion it has played havoc with his mind. He already had some memory gaps, rope burns, and he was shot by the man that killed Nathaniel Sackett, I'm guessing it was in an attempt to escape him.”

“They were taking him to André.”

“It looks like it. And we think Gamble played some games with his mind, said some things, I'm not sure what. We don’t know how long Gamble had him, but the man is dangerous.”

Alexander pressed his head into his hands before asking, “Will it happen again?”

“The doctor doesn’t think so. Once he’s rested, he should be fine, but we should keep an eye on him.”

“Of course we will, he’s our brother.”

“I know, Alex. I know.”

Lafayette yawned and he realised how late it was. He knew the boys had barely slept since Ben had failed to return on time. He was bone tired, and he knew they were too.

“You both need to get some rest.”

“You too.”

“I’m staying with Ben; you both need sleep. Now.”

“Will you try to get some sleep, sir?”

“Yes, Alex. Sleep well.”

“Goodnight sir, Laf.”

“Goodnight papa, Alex.”

Both boys relented, both accepting the warm hug he offered before leaving for their rooms. Lafayette going left into the room next-door, and Alexander going to the room opposite. He watched his youngest the whole way until the door shut, and kept an eye on him to make sure he didn’t go to his desk. The boy tended to work through his worries, but he still needed rest.

Ben didn’t stir in his sleep. George didn’t move from his side the whole night.

.

.

.

“I must  apologise , sir. For last night, I was not myself.”

“Benjamin, there is no apology needed.”

Benjamin had woken with the sun. He was still in his bed, but the pillows had been stacked so he was seated, and the doctor had been happy to see him in a clearer mind, as had George. He was still in a chair next to the bed, where he’d been most of the night.

“I do not know what  afflicted me so.”

“The doctor said it can be common, you had been shot, concussed, held against your will. On top of the stresses of your rank and job, it happens. It is not as though I have never suffered a bout of melancholia, our minds are just as afflicted by battles as our bodies, son.”

“Gamble, he killed Sackett. He was planning on taking me to André, said the only reason he didn't slit my throat was because he'd been  reprimanded for killing Sackett and after I'd killed his spy...”

Bens hand brushed against the small scab on his throat, and George wondered exactly how that  conversation had gone.

“I understand, son. Don't stress yourself.”

“I hadn’t realised how different I was in the eyes of the British now. I'm not just a soldier anymore.”

“You are the Head of Intelligence.”

“No, I know, but I mean, if I am taken captive, I will not be afforded any of the things another soldier would be. There would be no announcement that they had me, no option prisoner exchange, no prison cell or ship.”

“You are a spy; they would hang you... I can’t imagine you did not think of that.”

“No, even for spying, there would be no hanging. Public or otherwise.”

That threw George. What had they said they’d do to Ben, if not a trade or prison or  death?

“He said... he said I would be made to vanish. Just a small dark room for the  rest of my life. They would get all the information from me they could, using any method they had, until my death. I would simply disappear.”

It was the same thing he’d been saying the night prior. This idea that if the British had him, he’d simply cease to exist except in the memories of the people who had known him. 

What chilled George was the cold certainty in Ben’s voice when he said it. 

“I will not be sending you on solo missions again.”

“Sir!”

“Benjamin, it is no criticism of you, but it was stupid of me to risk you, not just as my son, but as my head of intelligence. You and what you do are vital to this war and any chance we have of wining; we cannot risk that. The cost of losing you; it’s far higher than any gain any mission could bring. André does not go into the field.”

“No, André sends psychos. You know Gamble wasn’t supposed to Kill Mr Sackett. He acted on his own choices, his own bloodlust. How can I be sure that the mission...?”

“Goes how it is supposed to? You can't guarantee that when you are in the field either.”

“But I know my mind. I can’t know someone  else's . I know the outcomes I'd want. I can’t...”

“Ben, I understand. But André knows Gamble, knows the man has a bloodlust. It was his error to send someone like that on a mission that wasn't supposed to be violent I have no doubt you’ll know better. Choose more wisely.”

“Gamble’s insane. Completely deranged, sadistic. How can André claim he has honour when he refuses to take action himself and sends people like Gamble instead? The things he said, the...”

George squeezed his hand around Ben’s to still the  shaking .

“Son. It's ok. You're safe.”

“I wasn’t sure how I was going to escape, everything was so fuzzy, I... all I could think of were the things he was saying. I couldn’t get the images out of my head.”

George pulled Benjamin into a hug, allowing the boy to bury his head in his shoulder and sob.

“He’s wrong. Whatever he said, it won’t happen. We won’t let it. You aren’t alone, son. You're home. You're safe. We're safe.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, hope you enjoyed.  
> Please R+R.


	5. Traitor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Update!!!  
> I don't own.  
> Hope you enjoy...

James Greyson was a traitor. 

Or a loyal man, depending on who you asked. 

The British would call him heroic; they’d say what he was doing was for the good of everyone. 

The continentals would hang him, and feel justified for it. 

They might be, considering what he was about to do. 

He'd been called into a briefing with the Major John André during his time as a prisoner, asked if he wanted to do something for his country. His real country. The time in imprisonment and even before than had massively disillusioned with the American cause. Why be loyal to a government that couldn’t and wouldn't feed its men? 

They needed to end this war, and André had a plan. 

Washington had to be taken alive, so he could be hanged in New York City to be the end of the cause, but if they could break Washington... 

They were going to break Washington. 

Greyson knew the rumours, knew the things people said about Washington, about his bedding some of the young men in his employ, but he hadn’t paid it much attention in the past. Once he’d been disillusioned, he’d wondered, remembered all the times he’d seen Washington displaying his affections with these boys, all the time they spend in his tent. High ranking positions for all his whores. 

André set him straight. 

Not his whores, his sons. 

Tallmadge, Lafayette, Hamilton. 

His targets. 

Greyson had been released on the last prisoner exchange, and returned to Washington’s camp, deep into the man’s ranks. 

It was astounding how quickly he came into contact with all three. If he were Washington, the King to be of the Colonies should they win their war, he’d have his princes under guards. 

Lafayette, the middle son, had overseen the prisoner exchange. Tallmadge, the eldest, interviewed him as soon as he was back. Hamilton, the youngest, had met Tallmadge outside of his tent as soon as the interview was over. They had no guards, no one keeping an eye on them. 

Washington was practically asking for their assassination. 

It was smart though, how close he kept them to him. His Chief of intelligence, his chief Aide-de-Camp, his ‘French-appointed’ Second in Command. Lots of excuses to see them privately and keep them close. Reasons to share secrets and concerns the common soldier couldn’t know. 

Greyson wondered if any of them were his by blood. Washington had travelled a lot in his life and it wasn’t inconceivable he’d conceived all three. If any, he’d guess Hamilton, seeing as Washington almost never let the man into battle, or away from his desk. 

Or maybe that was just because he was the baby of the family. 

He had to bide his time though, so for almost a month, he just watched. 

Once you knew, they were incredibly obvious. 

Overhearing conversations between the brothers in a tent, looking through the window of the house Washington was quartering in with his boys. 

Technically, he only had to kill one of the boys. His job was the wound the man emotionally, and losing even one son would be painful. More to the point, André didn't realistically expect one man to be able to assassinate all three. 

It was probably a fair assessment. 

If he had to get one, which, he wondered should he target? 

The eldest, the General's most trusted ear and advisor, who ran all of Washington’s intelligence and was formidable in battle. 

The middle, the most tactile and expressive in affection, as strong a leader as his father and the key to the alliance Washington needed with France. 

The youngest, the baby of the family, whip smart and kept safely away from as many battles as they could manage. 

If his plan worked, he’d get all three. 

The General held meals with his boys and sometimes other guests, every day he could manage. They could range from a three-course dinner to an apple and a drink. Washington used them to relax and spend time with his sons. Typically, they asked not to be disturbed in that time. 

But all four men could be pulled away from the room if something were to occur, and then how difficult would it be to sneak inside and lace their drinks. 

Not difficult at all, he found. In fact, he hadn’t even had to orchestrate a distraction at all. 

There'd been a fire. Well, there’d been a fistfight, but then a tent had caught alight and from there the General and his boys had all gone running and the building’s guards too. 

All he’d had to do was slip in the back door. The table was set with a few drinks and plates of food, not full meals, but bread with meats and fruits. All the plates and glasses were full, they hadn’t been there long. It was astoundingly easy to work out whose place was whose. 

The General’s was at the head of the table, his cloak on the back of the chair with his sword. 

Lafayette’s had the cutlery the wrong way around, on the other end, sword holster slung over the back of the chair in a manner similar to the Generals. 

Hamilton’s had a quill and paper, as though he couldn’t stop working even to eat. There was no weapon there. 

Tallmadge had his helmet under his chair and again his sword over the back. 

The only one he needed to avoid was the General’s. 

He was gone long before they returned. 

. 

. 

. 

With the fire sorted, George was all too glad to return to their dinner. This infighting was appalling, it shamed them as a people. 

On entering the room, he snatched Alexanders quill before he could continue writing. This was supposed to be a break, family time. He heard Ben snort as he realised what George had done. 

“Did you read the newest article from Seagerson?” 

“Ugh, entitled bastard, it’s easy for him to say those things, he’s not here, he’s not fighting.” 

“Maybe we should invite him for a visit?” 

The conversation kept on for a while and George couldn’t help but notice his youngest had become increasingly quiet, pressing his eyes shut repeatedly, but chose not to say a word until Alex pressed his hand to his forehead, rubbing then pinching his brow. 

“Alexander, son, are you alright?” 

“It’s... it’s probably nothing sir, just a headache.” 

That boy... 

“You’ve been skipping sleep again, and meals, haven’t you?” 

“It’s been a busy week, but I've had a few hours, and I ate yesterday.” 

“Alex!” 

“Alexander!” 

“Alex!” 

George’s exclamation had been gently admonishing, but combined with Benjamin and Lafayette, Alex just looked ashamed, and covered his embarrassment by hunching his shoulders and taking a long sip of his drink. 

“Alexander, you have to take better care of yourself. You help no-one if you collapse from exhaustion. Your body has limits.” 

“I know, but sir, I know my limits. I've gone far longer than this without food or sleep while working harder than I am here and I was fine. I'm just... not feeling great.” 

“Finish eating then take a nap. No-one will begrudge you a few hours' sleep and I'm sure you’ll more than make up for it when you’re well rested again.” 

“...yes sir.” 

He should have been more concerned for Alexander’s too easy agreement. It wasn’t that it hadn’t sparked concern, but he’d passed it off as Alex thinking that he couldn’t work with the headache, or something similar. 

By the end of the meal all three of them looked headachy and absolutely like they needed a nap, Alexander was barely keeping his eyes open and his head off his plate, and his brothers didn’t look far behind. 

The war was taking a toll on all of them, and they were so young. 

But then Ben frowned, and George knew that face 

Something was wrong. 

“Ben? What is...?” 

As he stood from his chair, Alexander fell, stumbling against the table, shaking, before his legs gave under him and he crashed to the floor, head crashing against the table as he went. 

“Alexander!” he cried, throwing himself to his boy’s side. 

“Alex?” He heard Lafayette ask, but as his middle child tried to get to them, he too dropped to his knees, eyes wide in confusion as he tried to get to his feet, only to drop again, legs unable to support him. 

Something was very wrong. 

Geroge stayed by Alexander, cradling his head, using his cloak to stem the blood. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to check on his other two boys, but Alexander was bleeding and shaking, eyes white and fluttering, breath stuttering, unresponsive in his arms, before he fell limp, palling rapidly. 

“Guard!” he heard Ben call, and looked up to find Ben using the table to hold himself as best he could as he called for help trying to get to the door. 

Lafayette was back on his knees, having caught himself, but his eyes were unfocused and his body quivering with the strength it was costing to stay up. 

“Papa? Papa, aidez-moi.” 

Lifting the pressure on Alexanders wound for just a second, shifted his head from his knees and moved to help Lafayette to the floor, so the fall would not be so great when he lost consciousness, something that happened seconds after the boy had spoken, almost before George could catch him. 

“Ben? Benjamin, answer me.” he asked, reapplying pressure to Alexanders head and despairing at the blood that had leaked from the wound in the short time he’d lifted it, resettling the boy on his lap. 

“P... poison. Dad...” 

There was a clatter, and from behind the table, Ben wasn’t moving. 

“Benjamin...” 

Oh god, his sons. 

“Guards! Help!” 

There was a crash as the door flew open, their eyes widening as they took in the scene. 

“They’ve been poisoned, get a doctor, now!” 

. 

. 

. 

“They’ll be ok. General, we gave them the antidote, it’s working, albeit slowly. They're lucky. I think the poison was out of date, it should have acted faster.” 

"Faster? They went from standing to... it was hardly slow.” 

“I know, but based on the symptoms, they should have passed out faster and once they were unconscious it should have torn through them. I've seen this before; people don’t usually survive to get to the doctor but, when poison expires, it can lose potency. They were very lucky.” 

His three boys, all pale as death, covered in fever sweats, trapped in their dreams. 

Alive. 

“Why was the onset so staggered? Alexander started feeling unwell much earlier, collapsed faster once he stood.” 

“Maybe the poison’s potency was staggered, or it was distributed unequally, but if I had to guess, Alexander is the smallest, he sleeps and eats the least, his body would succumb faster. And from what you’ve said, Lafayette drank more than Benjamin.” 

“I drank as much as Alexander, at least, but I'm unaffected.” 

It was what plagued him the most. He'd drunk the same wine, from the same bottle, but he was completely unaffected. 

“We found no poison in your glass. And if there had been any, you’d be dead already. You weren’t the target, sir.” 

The words repeated themselves over and over. 

He hadn’t been the target. 

He hadn’t been their target. 

His sons had been their target. 

They had purposely and deliberately poisoned every glass but his. 

What purpose could this have had? 

What reason could there be for this except malice? 

To make him suffer. 

Was there tactical reasoning behind it? 

“They tried to kill my sons. They... if they want me alive to hang, they need another way to hurt me, so they’re trying to kill my sons instead. Cripple me emotionally. They... oh God... my boys.” 

He hadn’t been the target, just his sons. 

Someone had come after his sons, and god, they would have destroyed him had they succeeded. 

The doctor frowned as he checked Alexander’s head wound again. It hadn’t been too dangerously deep, but had needed stitches. It stretched from the hairline above his left eye to above his left ear, and the bruising around it was ugly and dark. 

“Is something wrong?” 

“No... nothing new, anyway. It's no longer bleeding, but until he wakes, we won’t know if it did much damage.” 

“I should have caught him. He was feeling dizzy, he looked like he was about to fall over, why didn’t I...” 

“Chances are he’s fine, sir. I just want to be thorough.” 

The doctor excused himself, saying he’d be back in an hour to check on them again and make sure they were recovering properly, and George dropped to his knees. 

Providence alone had spared his boys. 

The poison should have been lethal, but it had been affected by something, time, exposure to something else, and its potency had been reduced enough for the doctor to save them. 

Someone had come after them. 

Had they set the fire, no, that had been an accident, or had it, had the men fighting been involved too, or were they just convenient? Surely there was no way the attacker could set the fire, get in, poison the glasses and leave without being noticed. How many people in this camp were in on this plot? They needed to find who had done this, how many of them there were. He would hang any bastard involved in this plot! 

His boys had to pull through. 

“Papa...” 

It was barely a murmur, but in the almost dead silence of the room, he heard it loud and clear. 

“Laf, I'm here, I'm here, little one.” 

The boy didn’t wake. Didn't say another word. 

None of them did. 

. 

. 

. 

Beyond the emotional hit that came with the attack on his sons, there was the staffing issue. 

Not 48 hours after the boys had collapsed and they were beginning to struggle. 

Benjamin was his Head of Intelligence, so finding the attacker would be that much harder, even with Lt. Brewster and Mrs Strong stepping up in his place. They could handle the work of the ring, but Benjamin was such a judge of character and situation that his role was unfillable. 

Alexander was his Chief Aide-de-Camp, he handled all of his paperwork, correspondences, calendar. All his meetings and work went through Alexander first, and the other aides were falling behind, even with Laurens doing everything he could to keep them on track. It proved his point that they couldn’t let Alexander out into battle. 

Lafayette was the one in charge of all the French soldiers, and he knew there was tension between his men and the French soldiers. Without Lafayette, they were growing and George just didn’t work as well with the man leading in his stead. 

Not to mention everyone but a close few expected him to be fine. To just keep going like nothing had happened, like the men in those beds were just any soldiers and not his precious boys. 

He needed them back. 

At the end of the day, once the night had drawn in, he retired not to his own room, but the boys. The doctor had requested them in one room, for ease of observation, but it had been no issue as they boys had already been sharing a room. The house they’d been quartered in at this camp was smaller than others, but the rooms offered had been more than enough. The room they’d chosen took all three of their cots easily and they’d decided it was better than any one of them having to be in a tent. 

They weren’t so pale, nor so fevered, nor so restless, but they did not wake. 

If anything, they were in a deeper sleep, further from the waking world. 

“This is a good thing,” the doctor had said, “it means their bodies are fighting. If I'm right, they’ll wake within the next few days.” 

He'd continued to worry, but the doctor had turned to him with an unusually stern look. 

“They are no longer at risk of dying, General, they will recover. It's when, not if, do not forget that.” 

He hadn’t, but it was hard to remember when they looked like this. 

Alexander shifted in his sleep slightly and the blanket slipped. George tucked him back in, brushing his hair from his face, careful to avoid the bandage. The night before he’d brushed it by accident and Alexander had whimpered in pain in his sleep. 

It wasn’t a sound George ever wanted to be the cause of again. 

He'd apologised, hoping his words would cut through the depth of his sleep, and pressed a light kiss to the other side of his forehead. 

Why hadn’t he caught Alexander? Why hadn’t he realised, worked it out sooner? 

Of his boys, Alexander was the one who’d suffered the most, could he not be spared the pain just once. Should George not have been able to protect him, the way his biological father had never once cared too. Why did fate forsake the boy so? 

Maybe he could find an excuse to station Alexander at Mt. Vernon with Martha, where it was safe? 

No, he needed Alexander by his side running the camp, besides, with Fate targeting the boy as it was, he’d likely be injured by a falling tree or the floor giving out or some other unpreventable accident. 

Besides, that would hardly be fair to the other two. 

Around seven hours into his vigil, somewhere in the early morning, the sky lightening but by no means daylight, Benjamin groaned. 

It wasn’t just a sleepy murmur; it was the sound of a man transitioning from the painless bliss of deep unconsciousness to the far less painless weight of their body. 

He was waking up. The doctor had been right. 

Ben groaned again, and George could see his eyelids flutter. 

He sent one of the guards for a doctor and settled himself at Benjamin’s side. 

The look of pain on Benjamin’s face as he came closer to waking was heart-breaking, but he had to take it as a good sign. If Benjamin was feeling the effect of the poison on his body, he was recovering. 

George couldn’t help but think once again of the last words Ben had said to him before he collapsed. They'd been playing over and over in his mind. 

‘P... poison. Dad...’ 

He'd been calling for help, for Georges help, but there’d been nothing he could do. Except of course, add it to the list of things that would haunt his dreams until the day he died. 

“You should talk to him, sir, it might help him navigate back to consciousness.” 

He hadn’t even realised the doctor had entered, then again, the man was silent when he moved. 

The doctor started checking him over and George began to speak. 

“Benjamin, son, can you hear me? Can you try to wake up for me?” 

“Dad? Nghhhhh.” 

Ben shifted, but didn’t rouse properly. 

“Benjamin, son. Please, wake up.” 

Ben began to struggle. 

“Wha... where?” 

“Relax, Benjamin, you’re safe.” 

“Lex? Laf? No...” 

“Ben?” 

“Don’t hurt them, don’t...” 

“Benjamin! You're safe. They're safe.” 

Benjamin's eyes focusing on him were perhaps the most welcome sight he’d had that week. 

“Sir?” 

“You’re safe, son.” 

Despite the fatigue and pain he must have been feeling, Ben’s hand shot up to grip his sleeve, raising his head as high as he could manage. 

“Laf? ’lex?” 

“They’re fine. They're going to be fine.” 

Ben gave a shuddering sigh of relief, and fell back into the pillow. Within half a minute he was asleep again. 

But he’d woken, and the doctor was nodding. That was a good thing. 

. 

. 

. 

To the doctor's surprise, Alexander was next to wake. 

Ben had woken a further three times, and was managing to stay awake. His body was sore and weak, but, once awake properly, his mind was sharp as ever. 

Alexander had woken, and immediately turned sideways and thrown up. If the doctor hadn’t been checking him at the time, he could have choked. 

George had bolted to his other side, rubbing his back and the doctor checked him over. 

The boy was practically shaking, he’d drawn his hands to his head, was pressing them into it. George had barely stopped him pressing one straight into the wound, his boy had been so frantic. He dropped his voice to a whisper. 

“Oh, Alexander, it’s ok, you’re ok, you’re safe.” 

“Hur’s. Ede mwen. Please. Hur’s, Papa. Doulé. Tanpri.” 

Alexander’s whole body was heaving as he tried to breathe through the pain, there were tears leaking down his cheeks despite how tightly squeezed shit his eyes were. 

“Sir, we can’t give him anything for the pain while the poison’s in his system.” 

George didn’t pause the circles he was rubbing between Alexanders shoulders as he leant in. 

“Ok, Alexander, you need to breathe with me, ok, I know it hurts, but I need you to breathe.” 

He wasn’t sure how much time he spent evening out Alexanders breathing and soothing him back to sleep. It had to have been at least an hour, and God, the boy’s pleading, desperate for George to fix it... 

“Is there nothing you can give him? He's in agony!” 

“I know, I know, sir, I’m sorry. We can’t risk it; it would almost certainly send him into a coma.” 

A coma. 

It was agony or a coma. 

Martha would be far better at this than him. 

It was at times like this, at the times where Alexander craved comfort, begged for someone else to carry the pain and burdens on his shoulders just for half an hour, that George was struck by how young he was. He had only just turned 20. And how young he’d been when he joined the war. When he travelled across and ocean for a chance at something better. 

He wasn’t going to give up fighting now. 

Alexander would recover. 

. 

. 

Lafayette, true to form, woke up quietly. 

He'd missed the first time, stuck in a meeting, but the doctor had assured him that it had been almost identical to Benjamins. Disorientation and only waking for a few minutes before falling under. 

He'd been there the second time, but again the boy had been quiet. 

In fact, George only realised he was awake when he asked what was wrong with Alexander, who was sobbing quietly in his arms. 

“Oh, thank god, Lafayette, you’re awake.” 

“What is wrong with Alexander!” 

“They cannot give him pain relievers, but he will be fine, little one.” 

“What happened?” 

“You were poisoned...” 

“Are you ok, papa?” 

George couldn’t help but smile at Lafayette’s interruption, because how could he not admire such a pure and kind heart. 

“I was no under threat. Only you three, but you have all woken up, and the doctor believes you will all recover well.” 

Alexander whimpered in his arms again, and he ran a hand through his youngest’s hair. 

“Why is he in pain and I am not?” 

“It wasn’t the poison, although I can imagine you’re sore.” 

“Oui. And weak, the doctor said it was normal.” 

“It is. But Alexander hit his head when he collapsed, on...” 

“The table, oui, I remember. He was bleeding, he was shaking.” 

“I am awake.” 

The words were muffled but Lafayette grinned so he knew he’d heard. 

“Alexander, mon frère, I am glad you are awake.” 

“Et vous, frère. Je suis content que tu ailles bien.” 

. 

. 

. 

George felt no guilt when James Greyson swung from the gallows. 

He didn’t think many people in the camp did. Keeping the attack a secret had been impossible, but most of the men had been outraged at the idea of, well, a poisoning. Not to mention who he had poisoned. 

Aside from the faint scaring mark on Alexanders forehead, there was no evidence of the attack left on the boys. 

With Greyson swinging, it was over. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:  
> “Hur’s. Ede mwen. Please. Hur’s, Papa. Doulé. Tanpri.” (Help me. It hurts. Please.)  
> “Et vous, frère. Je suis content que tu ailles bien.” (and you brother, I'm glad you’re ok.)  
> .  
> Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoyed.  
> Please R+R.


	6. Weather this together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter...   
> I don't own.  
> In which everyone looks after each other, and the boys make sure George gets the comfort he deserves.  
> Oh, and Arnold is a dick.  
> Otherwise known as the original inspiration for a whole other fic I wrote and posted because I didn't want to deviate too far from Canon in this fic. Haha.  
> Please enjoy.

George knew something was wrong with himself from the second Brewster unveiled Arnolds treason. 

Looking back over those days he would later realise he’d been sharp and short with everyone who came near him, including his sons. His anger had been vile, poisoning the relationships with everyone close as he  unconsciously distanced himself to avoid further betrayal.

He should have been holding his children close, but in his  fear, he had tried to drive them away.

It was a good thing his sons weren’t ones to give up.

Lafayette had been the first to break through, the first night Arnold had betrayed them, quiet and calm in a way neither of his brothers could be.

As soon as he’d had the excuse, he isolated himself. He needed to. 

One of his closest friends had betrayed him, he needed to process it, needed to work out what the  hell he was supposed to do next and how he missed it. 

He'd said he wanted to be alone, but after a time, he wasn’t sure how long exactly, Lafayette joined him.

“It was not your fault sir. We did not know. He had betrayed us, betrayed you, but that is on him. You are not to blame.”

“But I gave him West Point. And he planned on giving it straight to our enemies. How many people would have died, son? And God, if they’d attacked while we were still here, he  tried to delay our leaving, if we'd been taken prisoner or killed... it would have been the end of the revolution."

“Perhaps, I do not thing the people would have given up fighting though. I think even if we fail, our children and theirs will fight again until there is freedom.”

In his mind's eye, all George could see was Benjamin and Lafayette and Alexander, ropes around their necks as the British hanged them. He had no doubt that if they had the option, they’d kill his sons in front of him before they ended his life. The British wanted him to hang as example, but there were too many of them who would want him to suffer every pain and humiliation they could first.

What pain was there worse than to make a father watch his sons last moments?

Two hands covered his own and he realised it was shaking.

“Do not thing of what could have happened, papa, it did not. We are safe. We still have fight in us.”

“Arnold knows about you three. You will be targets now.”

“We have been targeted before. He already told them, when they wanted information that could damage us. Benjamin said André has said so, and found letters to  prove it.”

“It does not change my worry. Now that I know, I must fear. Arnold, I've known him for a long time, son, he is a ruthless man. What he would do if he had any of you...”

“He doesn’t. He won’t.”

“War is unpredictable, you cannot be sure.”

“We have each other, we have our men, we have you. We will weather this storm.”

He cupped his son’s face, taking in the determination, before pulling him into an  embrace .

“We will get through this, papa, it may seem hopeless now, but we have not abandoned you yet. America will be free.”

.

.

.

“...Adams, Little, Mulligan, Beddows, Kilroy, Hunter.  Now, Beddows, Kilroy, and Hunter were all agents of Robert Howe, who entrusted Arnold with their names when he took advantage of West Point.”

“Howe didn't know Mulligan! No one knew Mulligan except for us.”

George understood Alexander’s anger, he was good friends with Hercules Mulligan, Hell, Alexander had been the one to bring him into the fight. 

“Arnold doesn't know Mulligan.”

“His name is right there.”

“Yes, along with 40 others. Arnold doesn't have the evidence for 40 men. He's grasping. He failed to deliver them West Point, and so he's putting on show, he's puffing out his chest.”

“How can you be sure?” 

“Because I...”

Ben paused, like there was something he really didn’t want to say.

“Because he wrote to me.”

George started at his eldest’s admission, turning slowly from where he’d been looking out the window as the letter was handed to Alexander. He let himself see the mix of emotions on Ben’s face,  embarrassment , shame, incredulousness. Ben said without speaking that he had no excuse or explanation.

George turned back to the window, unwilling to look at his son’s faces.

“ _ As I know you to be a man of sense, I am conscious you are, by this time, fully of opinion that the real interest and happiness of America consists in a reunion with Great Britain. I have taken a commission in the British Army and invite you to join me with as many men as you can bring over with you. If you think it proper to embrace my offer you shall have the same rank you now hold, in the cavalry I am to raise. _ ”

“If he knew Woodhull’s name, or Townsend’s, then he would surely have boasted as much. The Culper  Ring is secure.”

Ben was saying that as if that was what he worried about. As if the Culper Ring’s security made up for... for this. 

“His hunt has just begun.”

They needed to stop Arnold.

“He will be the hunted. We will lure him out of the city and kill him.” 

Alex was gesturing at the letter, he wanted to use Benjamin as bait for  Arnold. But they couldn’t just kill him, they needed to take him alive and try him.

“No. I will not lower us to assassination. He must be captured alive and returned to camp.” 

“Sir, you wish to kid... to capture General Arnold from New York City?” 

Ben looked incredulous. Why? Did he not think it was possible, or did he not want Arnold captured?

“We must make a public example of him. I want a report on how this may be best achieved by week's end.”

He did not miss the look between Alexander and Benjamin, nor had he missed the disgusted tone of Alexanders voice as he read the letter, even when he tried to keep it flat, but his anger was beginning to smother his common sense and he knew it.

“Leave the letter here.”

George knew his tone was harsh, but it w as taking everything to keep his hands from shaking. 

How could Ben do this?

How long had he been holding onto that letter, saying nothing when Arnold tried to turn him?

How long had this been going on for?

George just couldn’t understand why he would lie.

Once the door had shut, George had abandoned any pretence of other work in favour of reading and  rereading the letter Arnold had sent to his son. 

It was written in such a friendly manner, how frequently had Ben been corresponding with Arnold? 

How much information could Ben have accidently told him thinking he was trusted?

How long had Arnold been trying to poison his son against him?

Had he succeeded?

No, surely not. Ben was passionate about the cause, and protecting his friends, he wouldn’t betray them. 

Not on purpose, a small voice said, but if Arnold has been grooming him for this, who knows what he could do accidently, or thinking it was the right thing?

Any action Ben took, any information he gave, who’s to say it wasn’t being influenced without his boy even  knowing ?

What he could have made Ben do if he hadn’t been found out under the pretence that it was good for the cause, for his friends, for George? Was that why he hadn’t killed Ben on that river bank, because he hoped to turn or use him?

How deep were Arnolds claws into his eldest son?

.

.

.

Benjamin arrived the next day with an idea for an attack and George knew he was trying to make up for the letter, knew he was hoping to apologise through his actions, but it was difficult not to be furious.

“Do you not think this action should go ahead or do you not trust me to lead it, sir?”

“How long did you keep this from me, and are there others?”

“It was one letter. And I only had it a day before I showed you.”

“A day?”

“I held it in no regard, sir. I would only have acted upon it in a manner to entrap the man, never to betray the cause. I'm  disgusted he thinks I would.”

His son was disgusted that George thought he would too, and it  gnawed at him.

“This hay, it’s of vital importance, arm your men and get it done.”

“I will not fail you, sir.”

Do you not trust me to lead it, he’d asked? 

He trusted Ben, of course he did. He was a very competent soldier and a brilliantly smart man and a loyal son.

He just didn’t trust what Arnold may have said to him, what thoughts he may have put into the boy’s head.

Ben was so quick to assume George didn’t trust him, was that something George himself had done, or was that an idea Arnold had put into his head. He knew the man had tried to plant the idea before, during the mess with Lee. Had he been continually trying the whole time since, slowly adding to Ben’s doubts?

Was George pushing him away, playing into the bastards' hands?

He looked back at the letter sitting on his desk, offending him with its presence.

If Ben had  borne it no mind, why had he kept it? Why not toss it to the flames and be done with it?

He pushed it to the side and started with his work. For hours he pressed on with it, doing his best to ignore the damned sheet of paper drawing his eyes and mind, emotions stirring in a manner most unstable until a knock at the door that came like a breath of fresh air.

Alexander.

God, let it be good news.

“The scouts have returned, there's little activity. There’s no worry about a British attack.”

“Good. That’s good.”

“Have you  spoken with Ben yet?”

“No, not properly.”

“Sir, you know he would never betray us. He’s just as insulted as we are at the very  insinuation .”

“I know, I do, but I don’t understand why he didn’t come to me. He'd had that letter for a day, he wouldn’t have brought it up if he hadn’t felt the need. He didn’t come to me straight away. I don’t understand, Alexander.”

“It’s Ben, he has more doubts than me, especially when it comes to his own worth. You heard him when he gave you the letter, he didn’t even think we’d be worried for what Arnold would do to him, just about the ring. I know how I'd feel if someone dared betray me then ask me to defect with them.”

“He was worried I'd be angry, and he was right to be. I've been short with him since he revealed the letter.”

“You have a lot on your shoulders, and Arnold was your friend. Anger, even misplaced, it’s understandable, sir. It's happened before, with Laf and I too, I'm sure you’ll work things out before Ben’s next mission.”

“No, we didn’t. He left earlier today, a raid on a stockpile of supplies headed for New York later in the week.”

And that was what was eating him from the inside. He'd argued with his sons before, but he almost always managed to fix things before he sent them into danger.

He hadn’t fixed things before Ben left.

‘I will not fail you.’

They said this would be an easy mission, but what if it wasn’t, what if the British fought harder than Culper was expecting, what if they got lucky.

What if Ben didn’t come home?

Alex was right to say Ben had a bad habit of putting things above his own life, like he didn’t even realise his life was supposed to have value.

He put the Ring before himself when he’d given the letter.

He would put the mission above his own life here, and not because it was necessary, but because he thought George would be disappointed in him if he failed. He'd tried to resign before, when things had fallen apart with the ring, as though his worth with them was based on that alone. 

He thought he’d lose his place in their family.

He'd rather die than fail them.

Alexanders stepped back, looking shocked and infuriated.

“He’s on a mission!”

“He had to leave immediately. It's time  sensitive .”

“He never came to say goodbye, I had no idea he was out of camp. Is it dangerous?”

Alexander’s anger was hot, and came fast, but it would fade into something like worry quickly. He never managed to stay angry for long. 

Ben’s anger was similar, usually indignant and reactionary. 

Ben was more similar to George though, his anger would stew, last, but still, his anger  burned hot.

George’s anger burnt cold. It lasted, heavy in his stomach, for days, weeks. While Alex and Ben snapped at people, letting their anger burn close to the surface, his anger simmered and made him cold to everyone around him. 

He would rarely even realise he was doing it.

He'd turned away his sons in his own pain and anger, and now Ben might not make it back, and his last words to the boy had been harsh and cold.

Alexanders arms wrapped around him.

“He’ll come home.”

He cupped the back of his son’s head, drawing him closer.

“He thinks I don’t trust him. I trust him more than almost any man in this camp but one slip of judgement and he thinks I will forsake him.”

“This letter, the way the man acted around him before, Arnold’s been trying to poison his mind, hasn’t he?”

“I’ve been worrying along those lines. I do not mistrust Ben or his intentions, but I also cannot forget Arnold’s ability to manipulate when he put his mind to it. For all he says he is a man of direct action, he is more than skilled at turning people against their own beliefs while making them think they are doing good. Ben is a good man, but what might Arnold have put into his head?”

“He doubts his place with us, his worth.”

“And I didn’t see it, Alexander. This may have been happening for years and I had no idea and Ben would not have told me had it not been  needed; he did not trust me.”

“That is not your fault. The only person to blame is Arnold, and we will recover from this. Without his influence, we can recover.”

“I was a blind fool.”

“You are our leader, our General, we would not follow you, sir, if we did not trust you, if we did not think you could bring us victory.”

“I... I have not yet asked how you are coping with everything? Forgive me.”

“This isn’t about me, sir, I'm angry and betrayed, but this isn’t my loss. You are the one who was betrayed by someone you trusted, you are the one who must carry on leading despite everything, appearing strong to all who look. There is nothing to forgive. It is you I should be asking that question to.”

“I am managing.”

Alexander's arms tightened and the boy tucked himself close into George’s hold. He knew too well that George took comfort from being able to hold his sons close, safe. Knew George would be able to take comfort in having his youngest son in his arms.

It worked.

.

.

.

The days waiting for Benjamin’s return were torturous. The longer he was gone, the more his guilt grew. What if Benjamin didn’t return, or returned injured? How could he forgive himself for that?

His worry was unfounded, Benjamin returned with his men a few days later, eyes bright with victory.

Still, there was guilt and uncertainty there, things George had put in his son’s eyes. He had to fix things, and after Ben and Brewster had reported, after Brewster had left, he took the time to actually talk to his eldest son.

“Benjamin, I'm so sorry.”

“Sir, you don’t need to apologise.”

“No, I do, because I was angry, but I wasn’t angry at you.”

“Sir?”

“I was angry because Arnold would dare insinuate that you’d betray us, I was angry because I realised, he’d been trying to groom you into betraying us and I'd had no idea. I knew he’d had an interest in hiring you to his staff years ago, but I didn’t realise it had continued, and when he betrayed us, that letter, I was so angry that he’d been trying to turn you against us. But I should never have taken that anger out on you, you did not  choose to be the target of his  manipulations .”

“I should have told you; I know I should have, but I... sir you were already so stressed and so angry, I didn’t want to add to it. I figured I could just ignore the letter and any new ones that he might write.”

“I thank you for trying to lighten my burdens, but I wish I had known, son. He has been trying to turn you from me since before Lee, I did not even consider that he had continued from that time, but I should have. All this time and I was blind to what he was doing.”

“You worry what thoughts he may have put into my head?”

George hadn’t expected him to be so blunt, even if he was entirely correct.

“You know well as I do that ideas can be easily placed and difficult to dismiss.”

“I do and... and I fear you’re right. On that riverbank, I... he didn’t try to defend himself, try to kill me. He saluted me. At the time I was sure I missed for distance or bad luck, but now, with that letter, with the things he has said or written in the past, I fear...”

“You fear you missed because something in your brain would not let you kill him.”

“I... I don’t know. Why would he not defend himself unless he knew I was no threat? I am not usually so bad a shot that I would have missed completely from that distance.”

“Do not doubt yourself, son.”

“We will capture him, sir. I will work out a way. It will be a priority.”

Ben was not so tactile in his comfort, but the steady reassurance, the steady presence, it was incredibly comforting. To know he had someone like Benjamin on his side was  incredible .

“Do not overwork yourself trying to prove  your loyalty, Benjamin, I know you are loyal to this cause, to us.”

“I’m sorry I lied. I'm sorry I made you doubt me.”

“You did nothing. My anger is my flaw, not  yours. ”

Ben's hand rested on his shoulder.

“It’s in the past. We have a war to win.”

.

.

.

Despite his conversation with Benjamin, he didn’t feel like he’d fixed things, despite his conversation with Alexander, he didn’t feel like he was on top of things, despite his conversation with Lafayette, he didn’t feel like his people were going to stay behind him.

The last thing he’d expected when he emerged from his stack of paperwork was his boys, four plates of food, copious amounts of alcohol and a large gap Alexander had worked into his  schedule .

“You need a break, papa.”

He didn’t fight them; it was 3 on 1 and they were stubborn boys.

It was a father’s job to comfort his sons, but sometimes...

Sometimes it was a father’s job to accept comfort from them too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, I hope you all enjoyed.  
> This is it for this story.  
> Thanks again.  
> Please R+R.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, I hope you enjoyed.  
> Next part should be up soon, and tags will be added as chapters are added or when I have the time/focus to add them all.  
> Please R+R.


End file.
